


Proving Ground

by Bibliotecaria_D



Series: Sandstone [2]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-18
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-06-02 22:58:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6586204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bibliotecaria_D/pseuds/Bibliotecaria_D
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Every one then who hears these words of mine and does them will be like a wise man who built his house upon the rock…And every one who hears these words of mine and does not do them will be like a foolish man who built his house upon the sand.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Proving Ground

"Every one then who hears these words of mine and does them will be like a wise man who built his house upon the rock…And every one who hears these words of mine and does not do them will be like a foolish man who built his house upon the sand.” 

**Title:** Proving Ground  
 **Warning:** Trickery. The uncertainty of not knowing what’s been built upon until a storm arrives.   
**Rating:** PG-13  
 **Continuity:** G1, in the same continuity of _Foundation_.  
 **Characters:** Jazz/Prowl, Sideswipe, Bluestreak, Optimus Prime.  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** kaedekei and White-Aster’s had a funny idea. My brain immediately decided to play with it.

**[* * * * *]**  
 **Part One**   
**[* * * * *]**

 

The rumor that Jazz never went in his office was a blatant lie. He went in it whenever he needed a broom. 

The truth was that he didn’t have a proper office. There was a door with his name on it, but only for formality’s sake. The regs dictated every officer above a certain grade had to be assigned an office. Well, that had worked well enough back in the dingy bases of Cyberton, where Jazz had mostly just inherited the shabby niche the former Head of Special Operations had set up in, but the _Ark_ had been built from scratch. He couldn’t just wave his hand in the direction of whatever section of the barracks his agents had infested and slip away before anyone objected to the lack of a desk. The claustrophobic noose of rules and regulations had finally closed about him.

He’d eventually given in to pressure from Prowl and Red Alert, but in his own unique way. He’d written his name on a piece of sheet metal and sloppily stapled it to the first door he found that didn’t have an occupant. It’d turned out to be a storage closet full of janitorial supplies.

“Look, half the time anybody tries t’ find me, it’s t’ clean up a mess anyway,” he defended himself later. “I just cut a step outta the process.”

Optimus Prime nodded thoughtfully. “The rule is that you are assigned an office, not that you use it,” he decided after Prowl and Red Alert had their say. Loudly, in the case of Red Alert. “I understand your concerns, but electronic documentation doesn’t actually need a desk to be piled upon. Just ensure all documents are secured for transmission.”

The judgment earned a peeved look at their Prime from both objectors. No, thank you very much, they had a system and wouldn’t be changing it simply because Jazz lacked a desk to pile the reports on. There was good reason individual reports were physically locked into tablets handed off to their recipients, and that reason’s name started with _‘Fragging’_ and ended with _‘Decepticons.’_ Soundwave’s ability to hack just about any encryption made and his Cassettes’ habit of intercepting transmissions had made a locked-tablet system a necessity.

But Optimus Prime was, of course, correct in that Jazz had technically followed the letter of the law. The spymaster looked unbearably pleased with himself.

Red Alert threw up his hands in exasperation and started leaving Jazz’s work on the mech’s berth as a passive-aggressive dig at insufficient security measures. Yeah, see? See? Even the Head of Special Ops’ door wasn’t secure. If he could get into Jazz’s quarters, nothing was secure! Soundwave could be anywhere!

Valid point. Jazz didn’t complain about the stacks of filework appearing out of nowhere on his berth, but he didn’t leave them there, either. They disappeared. The work Prowl handed him whenever they crossed paths vanished as well. The rest of the Autobots simply followed his example and tracked Jazz down anytime anything needed to be forked over for his signature. Nobody ever saw where the tablets were squirreled away when he accepted them, but it didn’t matter. As long as things got done in a somewhat timely manner, the Prime respected each Autobot’s methodology. Jazz was allowed to collect half the tablets in the _Ark_ like a dragon with a peculiar hoard if that’s how he worked best.

It’s not as though he didn’t do his work. He just didn’t work how Prowl did or where Red Alert would prefer. He worked whenever he had a solid block of time to devote to nothing but working. He tended to accumulate a pile of work before diving in to power through the whole stack, doing mindless filework while chewing over more important assignments, or fanning out an entire month’s worth of forms to find a pattern. Standard duty shifts and disapproval of procrastination did nothing to correct his schedule, and he worked wherever he felt most comfortable. 

What he deemed comfortable seemed to change often. 

It wasn’t uncommon to find him sprawled under a table in the common room at 2 AM on a Tuesday, muttering plans in esoteric backstreet dialects as he scanned through evaluations and signed requisition forms. More than one Autobot using the washrack after second shift sang along to the absentminded hum of human pop songs coming from the first stall in the row. Sludge served as a desk more than once, teetering stacks of tablets balanced on his back while the massive Dinobot snoozed to the sound of Jazz’s stylus scratching across endless screens. On those Sunday evenings he found his domain invaded, Ratchet drew a privacy screen around whatever corner of the medbay Jazz had collapsed into recharge in, and the completed stack of work was quietly taken away to distribute among the appropriate recipients. Autobots drove in and out of the rocky entrance to the _Ark_ some Friday mornings, not noticing the presence of a black-and-white form scrunched onto a ledge high above them. The long-suffering sentry on duty returned the tablets Jazz accidentally dropped to the ground. 

Jazz had no schedule or any set location at any given time, much to Ravage’s disgruntlement. The Cassette had been chased out of the _Ark_ a time or two after being surprised by Jazz’s presence in the Prime’s office at four in the morning or afternoon. It was hard to predict when or where Jazz would suddenly decide to Get Things Done. 

The amusing part of the wayward lieutenant was how utterly focused he became when he _did_ buckle down. Ironhide was the first to spread word about how easy it was to take advantage of Jazz’s habits for some free entertainment, but Blaster showed everyone how it was done.

“Heeeeeeey, Jazzmeister,” the comm. specialist said as he knelt down beside the table Jazz dwelled under tonight. “How’s the haps?”

“Which one of ya fraggers knows kanji, and why don’t I got a download of it yet,” was the non-answer. Jazz seemed to register a person talking to him without any sort of context for the conversation. His replies lumped into an ongoing stream of thought. “Japanese people write in pictures. I wanna write in pictures. Oo, download found. Miiiiiiiine. Aw, really, that’s the word for ‘house’? That’s cuter than Bluestreak. Wonder what kinda picture-word we could make for the _Ark_. Somebody translate that. And stop writin’ reports in languages I don’t know, it’s rude.”

Blaster grinned at the rest of the common room, which was watching with much interest as Jazz apparently lost his mind. “That’s rude, yep. What language you want us reporting in?”

“Cats are the best, Blaster, I just…they’re little fuzzy pillows with claws. An’ teeth. You gotta acknowledge awesome furry death.”

People snorted energon as giggles swept the room. Laughter filled Blaster’s voice. “I’ll do that. Consider it acknowledged. So, what you want on your pizza?” Cliffjumper laughed loudly, clapping a hand over his mouth a second later to muffle it.

Jazz didn’t even notice. “Pizza? Ummm, pepperoni, bolts, and Guam.”

“Sure thing, Jazz.” Standing up, Blaster took a bow as the other Autobots applauded. 

Jazz was extremely baffled to be presented with an extra large specialty pizza the next day. “What…the…are those bolts? Why’d you order a pizza with bolts, Spike? Little man, you ain’t gonna eat that.” He held the box out of reach of the human he assumed had ordered the strange food, only to peer closer as something fluttered on the inside of the box’s lid. It was a page torn from a magazine. “What country’s that?”

“Guam.” Spike shrugged when Jazz blinked down at him. “Don’t ask me. You’re the one who asked for it.”

“I did?” A dozen smirking Autobots nodded. Jazz looked around at them, then at the pizza. “Ooookay.” He wandered out of the room still staring at the pizza as if its presence questioned his sanity. 

Everyone laughed for days remembering that.

They laughed harder the night Jazz and Beachcomber sat on opposite sides of a hallway, backs to the walls as they each did their own thing and carried on a conversation the whole while. Nobody could follow a single word of it, since it seemed to be spoken in a code composed entirely of, “Whoa, hey, so I was thinking about…y’know…the universe?” and similar phrases. Groove came by after a while and interpreted, but by then most of the Autobots watching had taken a free sample of Beachcomber’s Best and could understand everything in the cosmos.

Wheeljack, being Wheeljack, made an obstacle course out of furniture in the halls on the night Jazz was in one of his work-and-wander moods. “The floor is lava,” he told the distracted mech solemnly. “Don’t touch it or you’ll die.”

“Huh? Oh. Thanks. Lava’s bad. Don’t wanna die,” Jazz said, visor locked on the report he was reading. Without looking, he hopped up on the nearest piece of furniture. “You’re a pal, Wheeljack.” Meandering down the hall, he stepped from berth to couch to table as naturally as other people used the floor. Autobots trying to get through by walking were having more trouble than he was. 

Two days later, Jazz asked Ironhide, puzzled, if anything was wrong with the floor in the halls. “It just, I dunno, seems dangerous.”

Ironhide looked him dead in the visor. “I got no idea what y’re on about.”

Everyone found the common room’s walls very interesting to look at. Jazz continued to regard the hallway floor as if it would betray him at any minute. Distrust made him hesitate stepping out of the room.

“They’re awful warm,” Blaster said in a stage whisper, and Jazz whipped around.

“I **knew** it!”

He didn’t understand why the Autobots around him started laughing hard enough to slip gears.

It wasn’t just fun and games when Jazz was working, however. Typical of Prowl, he didn’t so much take advantage of Jazz’s distraction for amusement so much as use it to set in motion a serious plan. A mech couldn’t waste it when an opportune moment fell into his lap.

See, Prowl was a practical mech. He knew what the price of a bond between two high-ranking officers could be, especially when one of those officers frequently risked his neck in field missions. It would paint a target on their backs, which had been Jazz’s frequently-cited reason for refusing Prowl’s hints about a conjunx endura ceremony.

In reality, those targets were already pinned on their backs. The risk couldn’t possibly grow any larger. The Decepticons gunned for the Prime’s two top-ranked lieutenants every moment they could. Making their relationship official would simply allow the survivor bereavement rights if one of them was taken out. As of now, while the other Autobots would respect Prowl’s mourning, he wouldn’t have even the faint connection of being listed as a widower if Jazz died. It wasn’t much of a consideration unless, like Prowl, his lover had disappeared so often he’d gotten used to the fears and doubts of waiting for news one way or another.

Either one of them could die any day in the war here on Earth. They were in battle every other week with the Decepticon Elite, who vehemently wanted them both dead. and Prowl wanted whatever he could have of Jazz _especially_ since they were targets. Jazz’s reason not to bond wasn’t much of a reason to delay bonding and all the more reason for a ceremony _right now._

Those were his realistic and romantic reasons, which he didn’t hesitate to state whenever the topic came up. It never failed to make Jazz squirm in pleasure, flattered and self-conscious. That was more than enough reason to keep saying it, but he had a much more selfish underlying cause for pushing for a ceremony. Oh, on the surface his reasons were undeniably romantic. He’d been in love with Jazz nearly as long as Jazz had been in love with him, and the time differed only from a steadfast refusal to fall in love with a series of reports on his desk no matter how much of the personality of the author came through. He’d been more than willing to fall in love with said author while heatedly making out with the mech on top of his desk and all those reports. 

He definitely wanted the ceremony for love of Jazz, but Prowl wanted a fancy ceremony with shiny filigree and three witnesses each, and he wanted it pronto because a frilly fuss with everyone involved was a statement. Prowl wanted to rub the Decepticons’ faces in it. They’d destroyed his city, they’d devastated his world, they’d made his entire purpose warfare, but frag them sideways with a chainsaw if he couldn’t be happy despite all that. He wanted them to know that not only had he thumbed his nose at them, but he’d done it in public with all his friends attending. 

Also, there was a gleeful little voice in the back of his head that started chanting _”Mine_ **mine** MINE _mine!”_ anytime he thought about the formalities of making Jazz his official conjunx. Not that he was jealous and possessive or anything, but the idea painting Jazz as _his_ during a big, overblown ceremony where everyone could see them take their vows made the smug side of Prowl deliciously happy.

Jazz always gave him a torn look whenever he brought it up. Er, the ceremony, not the little voice in his head. “Why I gotta be the responsible one, Prowl?” Jazz said every time. “It’s not smart t’ shake our afts at the ‘Cons. That’s daring ‘em t’ take their best shot an’ y’know it.”

And that was completely reasonable but not the answer he wanted, so Prowl usually went away to pace for a while, ranting to whomever lent a friendly audio. Or wanted a show. Sometimes both.

Until one day Sideswipe looked up from putting all his purples on Papua New Guinea -- Prowl had taught him that much strategy -- and asked, “Why don’t you just do the ceremony?”

“I -- “ Prowl stopped. “He does not want to.”

“Uh-huh.”

“He does not.” Sullen, the Praxian refused to pout as he looked away. “I will continue to ask until he asks me to stop, but it is clear that I have failed to meet some unknown criteria of his.”

Sideswipe squinted at him. “Do you -- you really do. You think this is somehow your fault? Pffft, hey, Bluestreak.” He elbowed the mech next to him.

“Pfft, hey what?” the sniper asked. Believe it or not, he didn’t talk all the time. He was currently absorbed in reading human literature classics, which took enough concentration researching Earth terms on the fly to keep even his scattered processor threads fully occupied. He didn’t even look up as Sideswipe elbowed him again. 

“Prowl thinks Jazz won’t marry him ‘cause he’s not good enough.”

“Pfffft.”

“I know, right?” Sideswipe looked back to Prowl, who was attempting to parse the meaning of the repeated piffle noises. “He’s crazy about you.”

Prowl gave up on understanding and stood there wearing an unintentionally forlorn look. “Yet he will not bond with me.”

“He might not like the idea of a conjunx,” Bluestreak said, glancing up. “Some people don’t, like Spike’s mother didn’t want a kid or a marriage, and it’s not Sparkplug’s fault she left him. He says they parted well but I don’t know, it seems like the pressure might have been what made them separate. Humans put a lot of emphasis on the settling instead of the searching, and they don’t consider extended social groups as part of the search. I don’t get it, do you? They call humans who don’t pair up derogatory names like it’s shameful to be alone. Isn’t that odd?“ He cocked his head to the side, one optic squinching up slightly in confusion. “Do you think it’s biological or social?”

“The permanence or the pairing?” Prowl asked, blinking.

“The permanence. Breeding seems to be a root cause for the urgency to pair, but Americans are really big on getting hitched.”

“Getting hitched?” Sideswipe’s optics blurred briefly as he queried Teletraan-1. “Oooh. That’s a great term.”

“Isn’t it? I like the imagery.” His next book loaded, and the sniper went quiet again as he read. 

Sideswipe regarded him fondly. “Heh. Anyway,” he looked back to Prowl, “trust me, there’s nothing wrong with you. Jazz would bond with you in a second if it was biological, ‘cause you **fine**.” He leered outrageously until Prowl’s doors went up, offended, but then he softened it to grin. “So there’s something wrong with his trailer hitch if he doesn’t want to hitch up to you, if you know what I’m saying.” The doors perked straight upward. Bluestreak snickered beside Sideswipe, and Prowl ducked his head, optics lowering. Sideswipe shrugged. “You know what I’m saying. And here’s the thing: maybe if you do the ceremony, you’ll get an answer.”

_”Miiiiiine!”_ sang the little voice in the back of his head, tremendously satisfied by the idea, but Prowl forced himself to meet Sideswipe’s optics. “Loving me does not mean he wishes to bond with me. He’s given me an answer on why he doesn’t want to bond. It is,” he glanced at Bluestreak, “a social reason, that of war.”

“And you gave him a counter-argument, yeah? Of course you did. He says the war’s in the way, but that’s a slagging cop-out. To a cop, how fragged up is that?” Shaking his head, Sideswipe returned to his point. “It’s an excuse, and I think you know it ‘cause you keep pushing and prodding trying to get around it at his real reason, and it’s rubbing your finish off that you’re not getting anywhere. Don’t deny it.” Sideswipe pointed a chastising finger at him. “You’ve been pouring out your woes on half the crew just since we crashed on Earth. How long’ve you been asking him?”

Prowl’s doors subsided to a depressed sag. It was a sad thing to watch. “Too long.”

“How long can you keep asking before it starts to hurt you guys?”

Running the calculations had become a painful thing a long time ago. Prowl turned to look toward the oblivious mech across the common room. Jazz had spread tablets all over the floor under his usual table, and he mumbled to himself as he worked. Prowl studied him as if seeing him for the first time, and the ache in his spark showed on his face. 

Sideswipe slowly shook his head when he saw it. That kind of slag could poison a relationship, no matter how strong it started. “If you want a resolution, skip the chasing and get to the end. He might leave you,” like Spike’s mother had left, he didn’t say, “but I guess if you’re driving to different end points, you might want to know ahead of time your roads make a split.”

“I do not want him to leave me.”

“Uh, Prowl, hate to tell you this, but it might be you leaving him.” Sideswipe spread his hands, shrugging as Prowl looked at him sharply. “If you want something he’s not giving you, or you’re pushing for something he doesn’t want, that’s just asking for either of you to end it. It’s not just him, here. You wouldn’t be pushing for permanence if it was something you could give up on a whim, and we don’t know why he’s dodging. We won’t know -- **you** won’t know unless he gives you a better answer, soooooo?” He turned on his seat to face the Praxian, putting his elbows on his knees and letting his hands hang. “So? So? You see what I’m getting at? How’s asking him for an explanation worked out? How’s waiting doing you any good? I mean, really. I didn’t even know about the two of you before we hit dirt here, and, like, I look at you,” he waved a hand in Jazz’s direction, then at Prowl, “and it’s obvious you don’t want to stick with what you’ve got. He does. That’s a problem.”

Prowl stayed silent for a long minute, standing there by the table, optics idly on the boardgame they’d been playing. After some time, he softly said, “I’ve tried to talk about this before with him. I want…I want him. But I want more. That makes me the problem.”

“ **No** ,” Sideswipe and Bluestreak said at the exact same time, loud enough people all over the room turned to stare. 

“It’s not a problem with one of you,” Bluestreak said forcefully, proving that he’d been listening even if he hadn’t been talking. “If wanting to bond makes you the problem, then it’s a problem with me that me and Sideswipe didn’t work out. It’s my fault I can’t stop talking, right? That’s what you’re saying, right?”

“When did we ever date?” Sideswipe asked, bemused, but Bluestreak smacked him on the back of the helm to shush him. Hypothetical example! Don’t ruin it!

Prowl frowned. “It’s not the same thing.”

“It is!” they said at the same time again, and Bluestreak pushed Sideswipe down in his chair to scowl over him at the other Praxian. “Sure, it’s more obvious going in that I’m like this, but come on! Sometimes things just don’t work out. Sideswipe doesn’t want to listen to someone talking all the time, and I want someone who can listen to me talk to all the time. Trying to work out something at complete opposites like that isn’t going to work, you know? What we want is totally at odds.”

“You could compromise?” Prowl hazarded, but both Autobots gave him a skeptical look. “In theory, depending on what the differing expectations for a relationship are being considered.”

“I think _‘no trailer hitch’_ and _‘wants to get hitched’_ are pretty hard to compromise on,” Sideswipe said.

“Yeah! And you said you’ve tried to talk to him about it, and I know you’re getting more and more upset about it because Sideswipe’s getting really good at playing Stratego, too, and Hungry Hungry Hippo’s fun but Sunstreaker hates it, and Ratchet won’t play boardgames with us unless it’s Operation, and every time Smokescreen teaches us a new cardgame we all end up with scutwork shifts for gambling, even you, don’t try and tell me you don’t because I saw Optimus giving you the Disappointed Look. That leaves us with BattleShip, and I like BattleShip except Cosmos keeps kicking our bumpers at it. It’s no fair and means you’ve been playing against him more than you should. It’s nice of you to include him but it’s not nice that you’re upset. You need to do something.” Bluestreak nodded firmly. “Sideswipe’s right.”

“I need you to repeat that so Blaster can record it for me.”

Bluestreak elbowed the red frontliner. “You’re right, bolthead. Prowl,” he pushed Sideswipe back out the way, “you should do it. Just see if you can get him to fill out the engagement forms while he’s busy, and if he does it, then the ceremony’s a go. Even if he backs out, there’ll be progress. Progress is good. It's not like you're happy right now like this, so maybe this is the kick in the aft Jazz needs to either tell you why he won't do it or give you a clear sign that he never will.”

Prowl couldn’t find the words to argue against something he wanted so much. He managed a feeble protest of, “Tricking him would be a poor start to a bond.” 

Sideswipe pushed Bluestreak off him and waved across the room. “Hey, you! You with the visor! Yeah, you!” Bumblebee had to nudge Jazz with his foot before the black-and-white grunted acknowledgement of Sideswipe’s shouts. “I’m going to bond with Prowl, that okay with you?”

“What?” Prowl said, startled, but he was even more startled by the clatter of Sideswipe’s chair as it yanked out from under the red frontliner, dumping him to the floor, and all of a sudden, Prowl found he’d acquired a new appendage. It was named Jazz, and it was growling angrily at Sideswipe. “Down! Do not kill Sideswipe, we’re in the middle of a game,” Prowl snapped. He threw an arm around the mech plastered to his side just in case. 

Jazz blinked. He blinked again and glanced around as if confused. “Uh…’kay?” He clumsily returned Prowl’s half-hug for a second before slipping free to offer Sideswipe an awkward hand up. “Sorry ‘bout that. We cool? Yeah. I’ll just be goin’ back over there, now.”

They watched him walk back over to the table he’d been working under, looking oddly bewildered.

“…that doesn’t prove anything.” Although Prowl was touched by it. The smug part of his mind was replaying Jazz’s instantaneous defense in loving detail.

Sideswipe right his chair and went back to building up his forces on the Risk board as if nothing had happened. “It proves he can’t be tricked into anything he’s not okay with even when he’s half out of it. And nobody can make him say the vows, you know.” He didn’t mention that if Prowl truly wanted to bond, that reaction right there meant he’d _have_ to eventually break up with Jazz if the mech wouldn’t or couldn’t give Prowl what he wanted. 

Some mechs were fine in relationships. Some were fine without. Some needed permanence. Some didn’t. Prowl was an intelligent mech. He could figure out what he wanted, what he needed, and what he was willing to compromise over. 

Prowl sank down on a seat, drumming his fingers on the table. After thinking about it for a while, he conceded, “It may be worth a try.”

And what was worth a try was walking in on one of Jazz’s workfests holding a handful of tablets. He thrust them forward. “Sign this.”

“Hmm? Yeah, whatever, didja know Soundwave’s taking yoga classes? This’s unreal. Who signs up to teach ‘Cons this stuff?” Jazz took one of the tablets from Prowl and immediately set it down on the current stack he was working through. He didn’t seem to process what he’d done past _‘More work; add to pile for later.’_

Prowl pushed his handful of tablets forward, prodding Jazz with a stylus until the mech took it. “Sign there.”

“Uh-huh.” Jazz blindly took the object poking him and used it to scrawl his signature on the top tablet. His visor stayed on what he was reading. 

A thrill ran through Prowl’s spark. This was going to work!

He shuffled the important tablet to the top and tried not to change his voice to alert his target. “Initial here.”

“Hold on, gotta…get the princess outta the castle.” Jazz was attempting to go in order, signing the tablet he’d been reading and setting it aside to reach for the next in the stack. 

Prowl took it away from him.

Jazz stared at his empty hand for a moment. “Huh.” He reached for the next one.

The tablets were patiently taken from his hands one by one as soon as he picked them up. Faintly puzzled, Jazz found himself looking at a lone tablet on the desk. Everything else had been removed. Prowl was wondering if he’d have to clear away the desk ornaments as well, but something seemed to click in Jazz’s head. The spymaster blinked rapidly and looked up as if seeing him for the first time. 

Prowl pointedly tapped the tablet. “Initial it, Jazz. Now, please.”

“Oh, right, sign this. Uhhhh.” Jazz looked blankly at the form on the screen. His stylus hovered uncertainly over it.

“Initial there.”

“Okay.”

“And on the sixth line.”

“Sure.”

“Check your agreement to the five clauses in the amendment.”

“Do I have to read ‘em?” 

Jazz looked tired, probably on the downward crash of a working day, and Prowl felt a little bad for saying, “Not if you don’t want to.”

“Good.” Jazz checked the appropriate boxes, looking relieved. “Is that all?”

“Sign your full name at the bottom.” Prowl tensed, waiting, but Jazz obediently scrolled down to the bottom to sign. “Excellent. Please enter a note in your schedule that we have a date tomorrow night.”

“Haven’t had a real date in a while. That’ll be nice,” Jazz said, but he was immediately distracted by the stack of tablets Prowl set back on the desk. “Mm. Movie night?”

“No, a party.”

“I like parties.” 

“I know you do. Full wash and wax beforehand.” He studied Jazz, guessing at how much of what he’d said had gotten through. Jazz shuffled tablets around into an order that made sense only in that convoluted mind of his. Prowl couldn’t help but smile down at him. “Mirage will remind you.”

“Cool beans. An’ crunchy peanut butter. Why’s the peanut butter crunchy…yoga classes? Already signed this one…”

Success!

Relieved, Prowl made a dignified exit. He managed to wait out the door sliding closed before hugging the tablet to his chest and giving the minions waiting in the hall a nod. Sideswipe gave him a double thumbs-up, and Bluestreak bounced on his heels, grinning happily. The minibots scattered right away, rushing off on errands to assemble everything needed by tomorrow night in appropriate covertness. That was to say, everyone would be informed by morning except for Jazz. Bluestreak and Sideswipe took off in the other direction. First phase accomplished; time for the second phase.

Optimus Prime clapped Prowl on the shoulder. “Have you given thought to your vows? Something so personal is sparkfelt when spontaneous, but if you’ve already prepared what you’d like to say and paint, perhaps Sunstreaker would like to see them beforehand.” The Praxian looked up at him, optics wide as it hit him what he’d just set in motion, and the Autobot leader squeezed his shoulder in encouragement. “As someone who has officiated a great many of these ceremonies, private and public, let me give you some advice: practice saying them out loud before tomorrow night. You may freeze up even so, but it’ll help.” If only because it would comfort Prowl later to know what the vows would have sounded like had he not stuttered and wibbled through the actual recitation. 

To be honest, it was mostly for Sunstreaker’s sake. The Prime had heard a lot -- _a lot_ \-- of vows in his time. Many of them had been fairly hard to make out through the impassioned vent-hitching as the person speaking lost control. Endearing as that was, it could be excruciating to listen to, especially if one was supposed to write the vows down in gilt and paint as they were being spoken. Sunstreaker had agreed to do the painting of vows, but Optimus knew better than to push his patience. A copy of the vows passed to him beforehand would go a long way toward that.

“I, ah.” Prowl fidgeted. “I had not thought of that.”

“You will have the rest of your shift to write down what you want to say, my friend.”

The Praxian looked offended. “Composing my vows on duty would be an unacceptable distraction.”

Good thing Optimus had already double-staffed to compensate. But he was kind enough to merely chuckle quietly. “You are 24 hours from springing a surprise bonding ceremony on Jazz. I’d be surprised if you’re not thinking about what’s to come right this very moment.”

Guilty as charged. Prowl couldn’t meet his leader’s optics.

“Mm-hmmmmmmm,” Optimus drew out, just to see him squirm, but he relented quickly. “Remember to practice them a few times.”

“Yes sir,” Prowl mumbled.

“Good.” He paused midway through turning to stride down the hall. Black-and-white doors were tensed to an anxious, quivering V, and sympathy made Optimus offer, “Would you like to play something later?” 

Relief flattened Prowl’s doors as he seized on the distraction. “Jenga?”

“Of course. I’ll have it set up when your shift ends.” If the common room in full swing couldn’t keep Prowl busy directing decorating efforts -- there was a disturbing amount of confetti and festive lighting being brought in, enough to be a fire hazard when combined -- and answering raucous questions with quelling glares, the game would do it. 

Optimus made a mental note invite the Aerialbots to join in if Prowl didn’t relax. Nobody did Jenga better than a combiner team. 

 

**[* * * * *]**


End file.
